Witch Hunt
by Lovelody
Summary: Dementors, ogres, giant spiders, trolls, death eaters, one massive arena, twenty-four tributes, and one winner. When any spell is allowed, no rules exist, and the only aim is to defeat everyone else, what is poor Ophelia Hawthorne to do? Includes original Harry Potter characters and multiple twists and turns.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a Harry Potter/Hunger Games crossover. It's got most of the Harry Potter characters in it, however Voldemort now reins and Harry was never 'the boy who lived'. He's just an (possibly, _wink wink_) average tribute. It will be told from my own characters point of view. Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

**Witch Hunt**

© Lovelody 2013

**Chapter 1**

I run through the fields of District 8 as fast as my legs can carry me.

My hair, which looks almost black in the moonlight, dances in the wind behind me as I jump over bumps and holes in the ground. The wheat, corn and other crops tickle my bare ankles and the cold breeze makes my eyes sting.

I'd been sighted sneaking out into Capitol property. I did it often in order to find food to feed me and my baby brother, but tonight I'd been unlucky and one of the damn Death Eaters had spotted me. I'd narrowly avoided a curse that would have had me spasming in pain on the floor and managed to outrun them. I didn't dare stop.

I finally reach the village and manoeuvre my way through the thin alleys which provide me with safety of the shadows.

During my escape, I dropped most of the small amount of animals I had managed to catch, only saving a single rabbit. I guess it would just have to make do.

My mother died giving birth to my sweet little brother and then two years after that my dad was killed, caught hunting on Capitol property. I was nine when he was murdered and taken away from me for good.

Ever since then it had been my job to protect and feed the two of us.

Despite being 16 and having had years of practice, I still found it difficult to scrape up enough money to buy food for a decent meal, which is why I was always forced to hunt for meat.

The majority of the people in town kept to themselves and barely spared me a single glance whenever I walked past.

The only decent person in District 8 was George, the baker. He sometimes spared us stale bread in the winter, when there wasn't much game to hunt.

I skin the rabbit and keep all the good meat, giving the rest, including the bones, to our cat, Lucy. After feeding Danny, I make sure he goes to bed okay then grab my book, 'Spells for the new Witch or Wizard' and settle into bed. I have to be extra careful with the spell book because if I was ever caught with it, Danny and I would both be killed, and the book burnt.

District citizens weren't allowed to know any magic. The book had been my mothers when she was still alive. She'd been a witch, my dad a Muggle. Most people in District 8 are half-bloods, meaning they all have one magical parent and one non-magical.

I'd been reading and memorising spells since I was first given the book, despite knowing I'd probably never be able to use any of them, and even if I ever did, it would be under dire circumstances and I'd most likely die anyway.

After re-reading a couple of spells I already know, I force myself to put the book away and get some sleep. It was Reaping day tomorrow, after all.

Ah, Reaping day. The 14th Reaping since the witches, wizards and Muggles in each District had tried to overthrow the Dark Lord and his reign over the Capitol. A Reaping takes place once every year in every District of Panem.

In my District, District 8, no one looks forward to it.

A female and a male ranging from twelve to eighteen years old will be picked at random. In this District, if you're picked, you're as good as dead.

Twenty-four people are forced to fight until death in an arena picked by the Dark Lord himself. Everything that goes on in said arena is filmed at all times – every moment of despair, every bloody fight, injury, and heartbreak – everything is filmed and shown on large TV screens in every District.

Everyone watches.

Parents and friends have to watch the tributes from their District fight off starvation, disease and other people their age. They call it the Hunger Games, or, the name district citizens whisper behind Death Eaters backs, the Witch Hunt.

If your family is starving, you can apply for tesserae. To do so, you enter your name to be picked in the Reaping more times. Each tesserae is worth a meagre years supply of grain and oil for one person. Every year since I turned twelve, I've taken tesserae for me and my brother.

Every year the amount your name goes in increases in number. Say you're twelve, your name would go in once. The next year, your name would go in twice, etc.

I'm just glad Danny isn't old enough to be picked yet.

The next morning I wake up early so that I can get ready. Even though we were basically going to something that is organising our deaths, we're expected to dress nicely for it.

I don't own many clothes though, so I look pretty average. I leave my hair down, combing through it with my fingers as best as I can, then I get dressed into a short white dress, worn and tattered from being stuffed in the back of my wardrobe too long.

"Opheliaaa," Danny's awake, rubbing at the sleep in his eyes. I silently curse, as it would have been much better if he was still fast asleep when I left, "where are you going today?" he asks me.

"Nowhere important D, go back to sleep, okay? I'll see if I can bring anything to eat with me when I come home, yeah?"

He nods. I make sure he gets back into bed okay, then I head for the square.

I wonder what kind of arena it will be this year. There probably won't be any snow seeing as one time, none of the contestants fought each other as they'd been too cold to even move and according to Capitol citizens, that meant it was boring because you had to watch them freeze to death. There was no blood and gore. I curl my lip in disgust at the thought.

The Dark Lord and inhabitants of the Capitol like violence. They like blood. They like watching kids kill people they don't even know, those kids trying their very best to survive else they'll never see their families again.

It makes me sick.

Twenty-three people, not even adults yet, having done – in most cases – nothing wrong, would all die a needless, pointless death. Only one person was able to win. But really, with everyone's deaths hanging over you, could it really be considered winning?

The sound of chattering voices pulls me out of my thoughts as I realise I've arrived.

Weaving my way through the parents and children that wouldn't have their names selected, I get behind the ropes with all the other girls my age.

I know everyone from school but don't know anyone's names. I don't really socialize when every year there's a chance someone could get picked. If they were your friend, they were as good as gone. I didn't need to lose anyone else after my parents so I kept to myself.

There were people from the Capitol recording the Reaping everywhere.

In an attempt to make everything seem jollier there were bright banners covering nearly every building in the square. A stage had been set-up like it always was at this time every year.

A hushed silence creeps over the square as the mayor taps twice on the microphone to make sure it's working.

He says the same thing every year, I almost have it memorized. His monotone voice drones on about the history of Panem and how the Dark Lord was to be respected and loved. What a joke.

When he's finally finished with his speech, he steps off the stage and District 8s escort takes his place at the podium. It's a short man with hunched-over shoulders, a horrible pasty face, bulging eyes and sunken cheeks. He looks almost frightening. His thin grey hair hangs to his shoulders and is flattened against his scalp with grease.

"G'day everyone, it's such an honour to be here in District 8," he doesn't sound very convincing, "My name's Argus Filch and I shall be your escort. All I'm going to say is, Happy Hunger Games, let us hope that they shall be just as entertaining as the last," the gleam in his eye makes me cringe. I hate Capitol people, "and may the odds be ever in your favour. Now then, ladies first."

He makes his way towards one of the two flaming goblets placed on the stage. This one has red flames, for the woman, and the other blue, for the men. Or, the girls and boys. They're too young to be considered anything else.

He holds out his hand and the flames sizzle a bit, before a sole piece of flaming parchment flies into his knobbly hands.

His slight yelp of pain as the scorched, burning paper touches his hands has me forcing down a grin.

He makes his way back to the podium and brings the parchment closer to his face.

He clears his throat, and reads out the name of the person doomed to enter the dreaded Witch Hunt.

"Ophelia Hawthorne."

Me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Witch Hunt**

© Lovelody 2013

**Chapter 2**

A long time ago, when I was about eight years old, my dad took me hunting with him. I'd often insisted he do so and eventually he'd given in and agreed.

I'd been watching my dad crouching in the under-brush for a while, waiting for animals to come into his line of fire but I'd become increasingly bored, not having nearly as much patience as him.

I'd decided to see if I could find my own game. I didn't stray too far from where he'd been in case I got lost.

I came across a tree with a birds nest on a branch a couple of feet off the ground. It had three perfectly white eggs in it, so I climbed up.

When I reached them, I stuck my hand out and grabbed one, only to be surprised as a small blue, slimy creature broke through the egg and squawked at me. It had startled me so much that I lost my grip on the tree and had fallen off, landing on my back.

All the air in my lungs had whooshed out of me and I'd lain on the ground in a tangle of broken twigs, trying to regain my bearings and figure out how to use my limbs and breathe again.

That's how I feel now, trying to remember exactly how to inhale, to exhale, how to move, how to speak. Then someone pushes me from behind and I stumble before catching my footing and turning around to try and shoot a glare at the girl behind me. I couldn't focus and all I caught of her before shaking my head and turning around was a strip of blonde hair. I force myself to focus and stroll forward, hoping I don't look as scared as I feel.

With clenched hands, I make my way onto the stage and face my District, the square full of the faces of the people I grew up with, but somehow they all seem like strangers and I can't place a name on a single face.

"Marvellous," Filch drawls, eyeing me. I barely notice. "Next up is the male tribute then," a sizzle of flames, "Neville Longbottom!"

The name doesn't ring any bells and I watch as a chubby boy of about 14 makes his way towards the stage. He almost falls over twice and his round face is scrunched up as though he's trying his hardest not to cry.

Everything passes by in a blur. Nothing registers in my mind until I'm escorted by a handful of Death Eaters to what's called the Justice Building and placed in a small but expensively decorated room.

I always knew the Capitol was rich, but I hadn't realised to what extent. The floor is covered in deep red carpet, there's plush white couches and pretty paintings adorning the walls.

I hesitate before sitting down, thinking I'll mar the clean white couch, but then I remember it belongs to the Capitol and lean beck into the softness of it, not caring if I get it dirty.

I know what comes next and I try to prepare for it. I don't want to cry but I'm not sure if I'll be able to stop myself. It's the time that we're visited by our loved ones. It'll probably be the last time we ever see them.

Danny was all alone at home and had no idea that his big sister was never coming back. I clenched my hands into tight fists until I could feel my nails digging into my palms, drawing blood, forcing my emotions down. He couldn't get food for himself, could barely even get dressed by himself and he was fast asleep at home, expecting his big sister to come back with my usual smile and hug hello. I'll never be able to do that again.

My first visitor arrives and I'm touched, albeit rather surprised, to see George, the baker, step through the door. He smiles awkwardly at me. He looks pale and fragile in the expensive room. He wasn't a very big man. Thin and hunched over, with greying threads of hair. He was kind at heart though, and that was all that mattered really.

"Hey there girly," he says, "I thought I'd bring someone to see you," he steps into the room, moving out of the doorway.

Danny launches himself at me, with tears streaming down his little face. I shush him and rub small circles into his back until he quiets down. I have to swallow the lump forming in my throat. I couldn't cry. I'd stay strong for him.

"George said you were going away! He said you were going away for a really long time," he sniffs.

I glance up at George quickly, who shrugs, not knowing quite what to do with himself.

"Don't worry D, I'll be back eventually," I say.

I wish.

"Promise?" Danny eyes me intently.

"Pinky promise," I hold out my finger and he grabs it with his smaller one, "you follow George out and be good now, okay?"

He bursts into tears again but reluctantly nods his head and leaves.

"Will you wait outside for me, little man?" George asks, ruffling Danny's hair as he passes. A stiff nod from Danny, and George came over to me, wrapping me in a quick hug which I was too surprised to return. I'd never been overly close with the man apart from when my mother had been alive, but since then we didn't speak that often.

"I know you don't know me all too well Ophelia, but I will look after that kid for you. Ever since I lost Lucy.." he closes his eyes for a second and carries on, "well, I've acquired a certain fondness for you two."

Lucy had been his wife. She'd been my mums best friend and had sometimes come over to see me when I was younger. I say _had_ because she died. A Death Eater had performed the killing curse on her in front of the whole town, the reason why I'll never know.

"I'll miss your smiling face Ophelia, and I'm sure that little brother of yours will too, so come back to us eventually," he kisses my forehead and places a little box attached to a silver chain in the palm of my hand, "use this to enter the place that does not exist."

Before I can question that strange sentence, he turns and leaves, just as two Death Eaters re-enter the room to collect me. I tuck the small box into my pants and decide to mull over his last words and study the box later.

I am ordered to hold on to one of the Death Eaters arms as they Disapparate – a spell allowing them to 'teleport' to another place, of sorts. Apparently they aren't powerful enough to Disapparate all the way to Panem and we will therefore have to get there by train. I don't mind; anything to get away from the slimy, cold-looking Death Eaters.

I'd never seen a train in real life before, only on TV when tributes get escorted to one every year, but it's huge in real life. The engine is noisy and there's white steam billowing out, making me feel disorientated all of a sudden. I don't show it though, as there's millions of reporters everywhere, recording my face and my expression, looking for weakness.

I let out a sigh of relief once I'm in the train and the door is shut behind me, blocking out the flashing lights and the wispy, steam-filled air. Filch appears and I'm quickly shown into my room and left alone, with a departing, "Don't leave until someone collects you for dinner."

I use my time examining the room. It's even fancier than the Justice Building. A large bed in the centre, covered in black sheets, dominates the majority of the space. There's a little door to the left that leads to a bathroom with a shower that has hot and cold water. I'd never had a shower before, and I definitely hadn't had the privilege of simply turning a tap and there being hot water, so for the first time since being Reaped, I was grateful. Against one wall is a giant wardrobe, which is what I walk towards first.

The wardrobe is full of pretty clothes made of silk and expensive fabrics. I find the only pair of trousers in there and grab a satiny blue top before heading towards the shower.

Once I'm out, I shove my wet hair into a ponytail and dump my old clothes on the bed. At the last minute I remember the little box George gave me and retrieve it from my pants to examine.

It's a warm red that reminds me of the scorching summers we had in our District. I can't see inside it and it doesn't look like there's anyway to open it. On one of the sides is a tiny engraving of some kind of bird – on closer examination, I realise it's a phoenix. I'd seen pictures of them in my mums spell book before. Lifting the box up to my ear, I shake it, trying to determine if there's actually anything inside.

I don't hear anything. Shrugging, I tuck the thing into my pocket just as a sharp knock on the door sounds.

"Hurry up!" Filch calls, followed by the sound of his heavy footsteps storming away.

I hurry over and walk a couple of paces behind him, not wanting to get too close.


	3. Chapter 3

**Witch Hunt**

© Lovelody 2013

**Chapter 3**

After the brief walk there, I pause in the doorway to survey the room quickly and wait for Filch to sit down. It's a posh-looking room with a large oak table centred in the middle and majestic lights hanging from the ceiling. I refrain from scoffing at the fact that the Capitol has thrown money around to decorate a _train_, and not used it for those who need it most.

There is a Death Eater stood in the corner of the room whom on our entrance flicks his wand, conjuring two more plates which are completely piled full of food. Sat round the table is Neville, Filch and two other people who I assume will be our mentors.

In their own way, they both look utterly frightening.

The one sat across from Neville is a thin man with sallow skin and a large, hooked nose. Black hair curtains his face, and his eyes, from what I can see of them, are black, without an ounce of kindness or warmth.

Shivering slightly, I examine the other one. I'm surprised this one hasn't broken the chair he's sat on. He's about twice as tall as a normal person, and roughly three times as wide with a long mane of shaggy hair and a beard covering most of his face.

Suddenly, his gaze catches mine. "What are ye doing over there, girl? Come on over, or ye food'll get cold!" I feel the tenseness in my shoulders relax slightly. His voice is jolly and his ruddy cheeks have lifted into a grin – he almost reminds me of a large, cuddly teddy bear. Not as scary as I first thought.

I sit next to Neville, across from the large man, and he wipes his hands on his pants and holds one out for me to shake.

"I'm Hagrid, half-giant an' a magical creature lover, nice to meet'cha, my dear."

I grin and shake his hand, "Ophelia Hawthorne, witch and food lover, nice to meet you too."

His booming laugh shakes the lights above us, and the man sat next to him sneers.

"I guess if we're introducing ourselves, I might as well tell you my name," he cuts over Hagrid's laughter sharply, "Snape. Who are you then, fat one?" His eyes look Neville up and down in disgust, and the boy in question tries to stammer out an answer.

"Cat got your tongue? Or are you choking on that large amount of food you've just consumed?" Snape says, and I can't fathom why he's being so nasty, "filthy _half-blood_, you're almost as bad as a Muggle."

He catches my eyes when he says this as well, as though making sure I know for certain I'm included in his little insult, and I feel my lips curl downwards in an annoyed grimace. Filch is watching everything play out with interest behind his eyes, and Hagrid has a frown on his face, but neither say anything to help, and Neville is almost in tears.

It's then that I notice the Dark Mark on Snape's arm. He's a Death Eater. We're to be mentored by one of Voldemort's servants, I realise.

That's when the anger comes. I feel the emotion bubble up inside me and I welcome it.

"Who do you think you are? You think because you've got some ugly tattoo on your arm, that, what? You're better than us? By saying that, you've pretty much insulted a parent of every child in our district," I glare daggers at him, and spit, "you're the only _filth_ here. Insulting those you're supposed to teach."

He fixes me with a cold look and Neville is staring at me, his eyes wide and mouth open in shock.

"Who says I will teach either one of you? You're both weak, insufferable fools that won't last a day in the arena. I'd rather not waste my time," Snape's voice is cool, matching his eyes.

In contrast, mine is heated, blinded by anger, "Well maybe we don't want you to teach us! You most likely have nothing to offer us anyway, we'd fair far better without you. You're just a mindless little follower!"

I don't know this. In fact, seeing as he has the Dark Mark, he's most likely incredibly strong and his teaching would be valuable, but I ignore the voice in my head telling me I'm pushing a good chance away.

Snape sneers at me and starts to speak, but Hagrid places a hand firmly on the table, shaking the whole thing, and causing my eyes to snap towards his. He looks upset, and I feel the anger deflate out of me like a popped balloon.

"Let's continue the meal in silence, ey? It's better than arguments, they hurt my ears you see," he says.

I see Snape smirk out of the corner of my eye but stubbornly refuse to look at the old git, instead mumbling a soft apology to Hagrid and keeping quiet for the rest of dinner.

After the last of the chocolate pudding is eaten – the best thing I've ever tasted, mind you – Filch leads us to a small room filled with five velvet-covered chairs and a large television.

"What are we doing?" Neville speaks for the first time, sounding quiet and shy, but I smile at him encouragingly before taking a seat. He follows suite.

"We're to watch through the Reapings so you can see who you're up against. Not that it will do you much good, I imagine," Snape says smugly.

No one deigns him with a reply.

Once everyone is seated, the TV beams to life.

Twelve Reapings and twenty-four kids if you include us.

Districts 1, 2 and 3 are all Career Districts. Meaning they're the wealthier Districts that don't suffer from starvation as much as the rest of us due to the products they create and sell. They're called Career Districts because specific people are _trained _for the Hunger Games. They train from extremely young ages and wait until they reach 17 or 18, then volunteer to win and supply their District with even more money. Training is technically against the rules, but they're free to do so anyway because they're pure-bloods, so they have the Dark Lord's favor.

The guy from District 1 is the first to catch my eye as I watch the Reapings play out in quiet calculation. He's a volunteer – slim and pale with broad shoulders, blonde hair, and grey eyes. Walking up to the stage he holds himself with all the confidence in the world, as though he thinks he's won the Games before they've even started. I catch the name Draco Malfoy, and store it away in the back of my mind.

District 2 isn't very interesting – just your typical Career tributes – tiny brain, huge muscles.

Next is District 3, and a tall, lanky boy with big hands and feet is chosen from the goblet. He has fiery red hair and blue eyes and when his name's called his ears turn crimson, as though embarrassed. I hear the name Ron Weasley before a large family, all with identical ginger hair start shouting and protesting. The Districts move on.

There's only two other people that catch my attention – a District 6 tribute and a District 7.

The guy in District 6 is scrawny, as though he hasn't eaten a proper meal in a while, and for some reason I'm reminded of Danny back home despite this guy being roughly my age. I quickly shake the thought away. I can't afford to think about Danny. He has messy black hair and startling green eyes – even through the screen I get a shock to my system. They're the colour of the killing curse. His face is poised in a determined expression as he marches towards the stage. All I catch is his surname – Potter.

The first and only female tribute that seems interesting is the one from District 7. Hermione Granger. She looks rather plain, but there's a uniqueness to her that makes you look at her twice. Her face is framed by a mane of bushy brown curls and intelligence swims in her big, round eyes. There's a tremble in her bottom lip as she hears her name called and her poor attempt at hiding her fear is touching. When she looks out towards the sea of people, she seems to pull herself together and a determined look much like the boy in District 6 covers her face before the camera moves away.

Once the TV is turned off, Filch makes a grunting noise and shuffles away to Merlin knows where.

"There's some strong-looking fellas this year! Lot's of competition! That Draco boy, too. He's one of the Dark Lord's closest Death Eaters son. I'd watch your backs with him, ey? Don't you worry though, me an' Snape'll teach ye to defend yerselves!" bumbles Hagrid.

Snapes lip curls at the mention of his name, "Perhaps. If you can keep up. After all, I refuse to mentor a pair of _weak_, _insufferable_ fools."

"We'll do more than keep up." I say, my eyes narrowed.

"Yes well we'll see, won't we? And girl, do remember – there can only be one victor." Then he's gone in a flourish of black robes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Witch Hunt**

© Lovelody 2013

**Chapter 4**

I'm awoken by impatient rapping on the door and a grunted, "Breakfast," from Filch. I close my eyes for a moment, pretending to be back at home curled up in my own bed, but my fantasy is ruined as the train makes a loud noise as though reminding me I'm far, far from home.

Breakfast is quiet and tense and once we're done we're told that we will be arriving shortly and that we'll be escorted straight away to meet our stylists upon our arrival. As we draw closer to Panem, Neville and I stand to watch the city come into view together in a companionable silence. I've barely spoken to the boy but his shy demeanour makes it hard not to like him when you compare him to the other people on the train.

Panem comes slowly into view and my eyes widen at the sight laid out before us. It's far more grand and intimidating than our little District – stone buildings block the sky from view, large medieval-looking torches provide light, and everywhere there are dangerous looking people clad in black or green velvet. At the sight of a tributes train they touch their wands to their foreheads in salute, nasty grins covering their faces. They can't wait to watch us die; to watch us bloody ourselves for their own sick entertainment.

I turn away in disgust and Neville hurries after me.

"Ophelia?" his voice, timid and quiet as a mouse, reaches me.

I turn to face him, an eyebrow raised. "Yes Neville?"

"I, uh, I never got a chance to thank you the other day. For – you know, Snape and stuff..." he trails off, fidgeting awkwardly. I smile at him kindly.

"There are no thanks needed. I was sticking up for myself as well as you and our whole District. I won't let some Death Eater bad mouth us, but hey, you shouldn't be so shy. You should've just told him to sod off."

To my surprise, he cracks a grin, "Yeah, yeah I should have. I just get, uh, nervous you know? But thanks!" And before I can tell him again that he doesn't need to thank me, he scurries off.

I shrug my shoulders at the little exchange and wander off.

* * *

"Merlin!"

I grit my teeth and glare as Reema, a woman with crazy red hair and startlingly blue eyes, yanks the last strip of cloth from my leg, removing the hair underneath and finally leaving both my legs smooth. She gives me what I assume is supposed to be an apologetic look, but comes out as more of a dainty grimace. I haven't been a very willing participant in this whole makeover so far.

I've been in this nightmare room for way over an hour now and I still haven't met my stylist. No, apparently I have to be prepared before that. The moment I entered the room, a women named Keri had scrubbed down my body with a gritty soap that left my skin feeling raw and vulnerable – a sadistic smile covering her face the whole time. I'm pretty sure she cackled at my pain at one point.

After that, another Veela named Fern, this one only a few years older than me and significantly nicer than the other two, proceeded to apply vials of strange potions to my hair and lotions on my face, whilst Reema set about removing nearly all the hair from my body. My legs, arms, torso, underarms and even parts of my eyebrows are now stinging with the aftermath of pain.

They finally all take a step away and look me over critically.

"Well, she certainly looks much better," Reema says as though I'm not right in front of her.

"Yes," agrees Keri. "Now she at least looks normal."

Fern hands me a robe and they all exit the room, telling me to wait for my stylist. I do as I'm told.

A woman walks in a moment later carrying a hat. I assume she's my stylist and I must admit, she's rather pretty. Even for a Capitol dweller. She has delicate porcelain skin along with hair the colour of cherry blossoms and an intricate golden tattoo adorns her cheek. From my very first glance I can tell she's Veela – normal humans can't possibly be that pretty.

"Hi, Ophelia. I'm Felicity, your stylist," she smiles, "First things first, we'll have to get you Sorted into your house then I can take your measurements and I'll whip up a dress for you, okay?"

I quickly realise what the battered-looking hat is for and nod my head in compliance. It will determine which of the four houses – Gryffindor, Slytherin, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw – I'll be assigned to so that Felicity knows what colours to use with my dress. There's usually an equal amount of tributes in each house and they normally tend to become allies during the games.

It's said that the Dark Lord was a Slytherin so during the Games they have it the easiest.

Felicity places the hat on my head and it's so big it covers my eyes. I'm quickly shrouded in darkness.

_Ophelia Hawthorne._

I jump in surprise; it feels as though the hats voice is speaking right in front of me, but I know that can't be true.

_Difficult, very difficult. From what I see inside you, the correct placing would be Slytherin. Plenty of cunning, determination and pride. Yet you have the bravery and daring of a Gryffindor._

_So where to put you?_

"Get on with it already," I whisper.

_Hm, impatience is something you should work on, dear girl. _

A pause in the hats monologue has me rolling my eyes.

_You are similar to the others. I've decided. You and yours will most likely change this world for better or for worse, so I shall place you with them and see where your paths shall lead you._

"Gryffindor!" It shouts, and faintly I hear a girly squeal and clapping from Felicity before she removes the hat.

"Oh, this is perfect," she grins at me, "I was hoping you would be a Gryffindor. Reds and gold will suit you beautifully! Now, measurements, measurements."

A few hours later, I'm dressed in the finest piece of clothing I've ever seen. It's soft and warm, and feels like silk where it touches my skin. It's a beautiful crimson gown with intricate golden details stitched across the bodice – the dress itself looks as though it belongs to a queen, and it makes me feel inadequate and small as I look down at it.

When I'm finally allowed to look in the mirror, I stare for a couple of seconds, confused. Then I realise that the girl staring back is me. I take in my reflection with wide eyes and try to come up with a way to describe myself. My hair is much more voluminous than usual and one of the potions Fern gave me obviously made it curly as it fell down my back in tight, chocolate ringlets. My eyes are accented with a golden powder so that the green in them stands out starkly against my pale skin, and I notice my cheekbones look more prominent than normal.

I look healthy, elegant and dangerous. I fit the dress.

"Oh! I almost forgot." Felicity walks over to me and hands me George's phoenix box. I look down at it then back up at her, questioningly.

"It fell out of your pants earlier when you were undressing. I thought it would bring you some comfort when you go out in the chariot, and really it's just a bonus that it goes with your dress," she explains.

"Oh, well, thank you," I say awkwardly, "but what am I supposed to do with it?"

She looks baffled. "Well it's a necklace, silly. You put it around your neck."

I almost want to hit myself when I realise how stupid I'd been. Of course it was a necklace – what else would the chain have been for? All this time I'd been walking around with it in my pocket.

I quickly unclasp it and secure it round my neck. It feels heavy and comforting against my chest and reminds me of home.

Suddenly, standing there, seeing myself in the mirror, I realise I have hope. A surge of confidence and determination hits me and I make a silent vow to myself. I'll show the Dark Lord – no, I'll show _Voldemort_ – that I don't care for his silly little Games. I smooth my thumb over the engraved phoenix and tell myself I'll beat this. I'll beat the Witch Hunt and return home to Daniel.

I won't die.


End file.
